Sins of the Brother
by Indigo2831
Summary: Loose tag to Dark Side of the Moon, When the Leeve Breaks. Dean intercepts supernatural poison meant for Sam with devastating side-effects. T for rough language. The ULIMATE Angst story!  NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! This story started as apart of the E/O Drabble Challenge. This idea took on a life of its own after I'd finished the little drabble, so I decided to turn it into a full-length story. It begins in Chapter 2. The entire drabble is in the story if you look for it.

So if you're looking for the for the full-length version, onward to Chapter 2!

* * *

**Sins of the Brother**

"_Jess burned because of you."_

Dean's tone was a weird combination of explosive hatred and agonizing weakness. Sam blocked haphazard punches, and tried to take his temperature.

"_I went to hell because of a bloodsucking monster-freak."_

Dean had been poisoned by hunters gunning for Sam. It wasn't fatal—not that they could die. It left Dean twisted with pain, feverish, and uninhibitedly mean.

_"Dad should have put a bullet in your head years ago."_

Sam grunted when Dean kicked him hard in the hip, then spit Gatorade in his face.

"_I should filet you like a fish_."

He grabbed Dean's wrist a beat after his knife nailed him in chest, deep enough to bleed. This was his fault, so he took it.

It took two days for the drug to work its way out of Dean's system. He woke up, not to Dean strangling him, but to a brother oozing profound shame. "Sammy…"

Sam waved him off and made some excuse about needing fresh air. He walked towards the vending machine, tears buzzing in his bloodshot eyes.

"Sammy, I feel…awful. I couldn't…stop myself."

Battered and distraught, Sam hated how words cut deeper than any knife, especially when they were true.


	2. Chapter 2

The longer version of this story unfolded prettily easily after I wrote the drabble. I was finishing up Raising Winchester, and it wouldn't leave me alone. In fact, it's a lot longer than I anticipated. So it'll come in a few parts, no more than three.

This story is a loose tag for "Dark Side of the Moon" and "When the Levee Breaks."

Please let me know what you think! I welcome constructive reviews, good and bad.

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Chapter One

Flames burned hot and high around them, painting the sky in mottled, apocalyptic red. Lightning strobed behind dense plumes of smoke and bloated thunderheads. Sam and Dean careened into the forest, shooting blindly over their shoulders, laying down each other's cover-fire. Branches whipped at their faces and they weaved, correcting and balancing as they ran over the uneven, rocky earth. Sam's shins ached and his vision was staticky from the exertion of battle. Dean wondered when Sam had gotten so fast.

The sprint took them at least a mile away from the fire and fight. The brothers collapsed against the fender of the concealed Impala, panting and gripped their shotguns that still smoldering a bit. Dean coughed ash from his lungs. Sam sank to the ground, and tried not to vomit from the cramp contorting his diaphragm. Their senses were honed, every sound—from the distant cackle of fire to the too-near rumble of thunder—registered. The adrenaline paraded through them, blunting pain and fatigue. And for a fleeting second Sam felt powerful, more than human, instead of less.

Sam and Dean met each other's eyes and exploded.

"I can't believe you blew it up! Sammy the Pyro!" "I can't believe you risked that shot…I heard the bullet, man!"

The fight—an eradication of a web of evil-doing demons— felt like falling into a memory. The Winchester rhythm and flow that Sam thought had died when Lucifer rose, when Sam had folded his hands around Dean's neck, was back. They moved fluidly like two parts of the same machine. And for a few fleeting moments of terror and strength and freedom and badassery, it felt like Before. Before Sam had died. Before Dean had died. Before Castiel. Before Lillith.

Before that devastating walk down Heaven's Highway.

Neither wanted it to end. Sam stood up on quivering legs and offered a hand to Dean, whose eyes crackled with post-hunt euphoria. "You wanna get a beer?"

Dean punched him playfully in the arm like the big brother he was. "Hell yes I wanna get a beer! You drive, Sammy! First round's on me."

Sam caught the keys, laughing. He appreciated the spirit in which they were given, like the little brother he was.

-o-

Bars along backroads were timeless, and this one was no different. From the jukebox in the corner blasting out Alabama and Aerosmith to the strings of lights threaded through the rafters to the short skirts and high hair on the waitresses, it was like every bar Sam had been in as a hunter and child. This wasn't Sam's preferred type of bar—he liked funky and ecletic — but even the crunch of peanut shells on the floor and cigarette smoke in the air felt pleasantly familiar, the sights and smells of his childhood. And Dean was still riding the post-hunt endorphins, sipping at his whiskey as he chatted up two brunettes. He wasn't chugging it like a shattered man desperate for oblivion.

Sam wasn't sure if Dean would recover from their little roadtrip through Heaven. He'd tossed the amulet away, a kick in the face to Sam as much as it was an affront to an indifferent God. Sam knew Dean wouldn't talk about it. No matter how hard he tried, Dean wouldn't listen. He'd just stare at him with a stonily blank expression and glittering eyes that told him just how unspeakably hurt he was.

Dean had shut down, all broken spirit and brittle will, and Sam had to soldier on, despite the memories of Dean's that Sam had seen. A mother who couldn't talk to him because he existed yet, a living portrait of everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd fought to have. Dean had selfishly wanted to stay in a memory that gutted Sam, and he never complained. He let him have it, no matter how much it hurt him to do it. Sam would endure anything for his brother.

But it figured that even _Heaven _would betray him. Sam couldn't even muster up the energy to be surprised.

"Hi, sugar," a doe-eyed waitress said with her caramel Southern lilt. She was carrying a plate of mini burgers. "I need you to settle a bet between me and Elaine, behind the bar."

She cleared away their empty glasses and sat down a huge plate in front of Sam. And he took the chance, eyes flickering to her cleavage. It had been a long time.

His eyes widened and his stomach growled as he smelled the uncanny crackle of hot grease and salt and meat. "I didn't order these."

"I know…but it's yours if you help me win the bet." She sat down in Dean's vacated seat. "See, I think you have a great smile, and Elaine doesn't. If I win the bet, she'll cover my shift for an hour."

"An hour, huh?"

"My feet are killin' me." She whimpered, pouting a bit for show.

Sam usually shied away from women, feeling tainted and dirty down to the soul, but he was three beers and four shots into the night. And he was still a red-blooded man. Things were pretty and swirly and light for the first time in years. He looked at her and managed a real smile, even if it felt foreign to him. The waitress—Lola—smiled too, clutching her heart with theatrical joy. "Yes! Dimples for the win!"

She turned to the older woman behind the bar with a cocky grin. "See you in an hour, Lainey!"

They chatted about stupid things like bars and college and music. They danced to some slow country song on the jukebox. They made out in Lola's cramped Mazda. Lola returned to work. Sam ordered more another beer and a whiskey neat for Dean from Elaine, and slipped into the bathroom. His hair was fluffed and fuzzed and he had the shimmer of Lola's gloss on his lips. He smiled, remembering ten lifetimes ago at Stanford, when nights like this were the norm, but it was always Jess' perfume lingering on his clothes and love curling in his belly instead of lust and repressed need. But Sam had learned to take what he could get.

Dean was quite shitfaced when Sam returned. He'd started on his drunken routine of hoovering down any and all alcohol still on the table. He grinned at Sam, gulping his beer. Sam smacked him lightly on the arm. "I just ordered that!"

"You snooze you lose, Sammy!" Dean chided, punctuating the sentence with an impressive burp. "You can't abandon the booze!" He was standing, hunched over the table, eyes glassy, wobbling.

He playfully pushed Sam away to guzzle more of the stolen longneck. Sam sighed in annoyance and easily plucked it from his grasp. "All right, buddy, last call. You're one whiskey away from stealing drinks from strangers."

"I did that once…and it was my birfday! People need to pony up the shots on your birfday." Dean smirked and gestured wildly to the empty chair.

Sam wasn't going to point out that it was his eighteenth birthday.

"Sit, stay…we're havin' fun. Apocalypse smahpocalypse, right? Winchesssters are goin' rogue!" Sam sat, laughing at his very drunk brother and sat. "Tell me about the girrrrl…she's pretty. And you totally have a hickey." Dean prompted.

Sam blushed down to his toes, and flipped up the collar of his shirt. "Just a girl…I think she picked me up, actually. She gave me a line about a bet on my smile."

Dean shook his head knowingly. "Aww, Sammy, such a slut. Please tell me you're a slut. You hit that, right?" But then the dopey expression melted away, twisting into discomfort. Dean gripped the table and shuddered for a second, leaning forward, brow pinched.

Sam lifted his eyebrows, feeling buzzed himself. "Can't hold your liquor, dude. Pathetic." He lifted the beer to his lips. "Don't you dare puke at the table."

Their evening of brotherly camaraderie abruptly descended into a gauzy blur of frenetic confusion. Arcing over the table, Dean swatted the beer bottle from his hand. The table nearly tipped over. Glasses rolled and broke. Dean grimaced—not in alcohol-induced nausea, but with actual pain—and toppled over from the chair and onto his knees. There was bewilderment, the cold sweat of panic, a woman screaming for an ambulance, Lola's terrified face.

Sam gathered Dean up, who was already sweating, and hauled him into the men's room. "Poison, Sammy. Got dosed."

Sam's vision wavered in between hysterics and anger. But he had been trained to act. He leaned Dean over the toilet, "Get rid of it. I'll be right back."

Dean knowingly rammed his fingers down his throat in an attempt to purge himself of the poison.

Sam tore himself away to the sound of Dean vomiting. He snatched one of the plastic bags draped over the bar for discarded peanut shells went back to the table, picking up the stray bottles and glasses. He used his peripheral vision to scan the bar, searching for anyone who seemed suspicious or possessed. After a few minutes, he backed away, seeing Lola pressed wiping the same spot of counter she had been when Sam was stalked out of the bathroom. He looked at her, the detached hunter instead of the unguarded guy drinking on Thirsty Thursday. She stepped forward, mouth opened to speak, but Sam turned away and jogged back into the bathroom.

Dean was still puking. The tiny bathroom reeked of alcohol and bile. "Y'alright?" Sam asked as he broke the beer bottles open in the sink, not caring if he cut himself in the process.

"…freakin' peachy…" Dean gurgled and shifted, pained. "…think it's…"

Sam saw the mouth and jagged edges encrusted with sulfur, "…supernatural," Sam supplied. The rage was festering and spreading like a nefarious poison of his own making.

It wasn't fair.

Sam's phone vibrated in his pocket. He snatched it, praying it was Castiel. The voice on the other end was a gravelly baritone, but it definitely wasn't angelic. "Have fun tonight, Sam. That one had your name on it. Consider it a _devil's_ cocktail."

And now it was his fault.

-o-

Everything was _too much_. The growl of his Impala. The once awesome growl of the engine sounded maniacal like a voice reverberating in his head.

He could feel the impossibly heavy weight of his tee-shirt grating against his skin, sandpaper instead of well-worn cotton.

The lights were searing and blinding, triggering a thumping pain in his head and behind his eyes. But if he closed them, Dean was falling, succumbing to an inky evil that was a river of unbridled emotion—all of the terrible ones. It made him feel wrong and raw and _naked, _nerving endings and soul unsheathed and exposed.

The pain was an entity in itself, a blossoming monster scraping at the backside of his breastbone, tangling his intestines. It was a niggling, inescapable anguish, and it only promised for more.

Sam was there, trying to help, but his big hands were doing nothing but pulling triggers and ringing bells of pure torture. "I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam said again, and the pitch of his voice was a sharp screech akin to the grinding gears in Hell.

"Just…stop talking."

Sam carted him inside. Dean broke away, staggering to the nearest bed. He tore at his jackets, fighting encroaching weakness to get it off. Sam was already taking off his boots and socks, screaming about fever. The cold air on his feet was unsettling. He buried his face into the pillow, trying to borrow into it.

Castiel fluttered into the room but was gone minutes, and then Sam was squawking into his phone, stomping around the room on his frickin' gigantic clodhoppers. It was as quiet as a parade.

Sam crouched down at this bedside, pulling the pillow away from Dean's face, but when he spoke, it was in a husky whisper that somehow still ratteled Dean's teeth. "Cas says the toxin is something spun by demons. It'll make you achy and weak and he used the words 'candidly irritiable' for a few days. It's not fatal, but Cas is looking for an antidote anyway. I'm going to do more research, but Bobby said hydration with holy water should help."

_Days?_ Dean groaned, feeling the flames of fever lick at the tips his ears. Sam looked sick with remorse, and Dean was still a big brother. "I'm never going out with you again, dude, you know that, right?"

Sam actually laughed, a surprised little snort. And for a brief moment, Dean didn't feel so bad.

-o-

The irritability Castiel had warned Sam about started as soon as Dean woke up from a tormented sleep. Sam was replacing the cloth on Dean's forehead, hoping to provide some relief like Dean had in the days Sam had been in the panic room. Dean's eyes darkened and his face shifted into a scowl of absolute wickedness. Dean slapped him, hard enough for the strength behind it belied the fever and weakness. _"This is your fault, Sam. All of it is."_

"I know, dude." Sam admitted, his cheek twitching and hot. He turned back to Dean, undeterred. He traded the cloth for a bottle of Gatorade thinned with holy water. "Drink, Dean, it'll help."

Dean drank, and then spit it in his face, snarling with rage. _"I hate you." _

Sam wiped the red out of his eyes, shocked but unfazed. They'd lived their lives with corpses and decay and festering, snarling monsters. They fought as many pussing, oozing infections as they had demons, so Sam could deal with whatever Dean threw at him. As time passed, it turned out to be anything Dean could reach, shoes, remotes, clock radio, a lamp. Sam didn't have time to dodge the wooden finial from their headboard. He hit him right on the shoulder when he returned from the convenience store. He staggered against the door, clenched his teeth as wood thwacked against bone. Sam staggered from it, cursing.

Dean's face was darkened with evil and glistening from the fever. _"Mom should have aborted you."_

His mouth fell agape, and Sam's visible hurt only seemed to spur Dean on. _"Dad should have put a bullet in your head years ago."_

The violent fits—Dean clawing Sam's arms until they bled, punching him in the face—felt like a punishment for more hunters aiming for Sam and Dean getting caught in the crossfire. Or for Sam ending the world. Sam had taken far, far worse. He'd even wished for it in those first bleak days after Lucifer had risen when Dean couldn't look at him and flinched if Sam moved too fast.

But the verbal abuse felt more like the unvarnished truth that Dean had exiled to some private place in his psyche.

"_I'm glad Mom's not alive to see what you've become." _

Sam scurried around the room, collecting all the weapons and stashing them in the bathtub.

"_You are a monster, Sammy, and everyone can see it. A bloodsucking, demon-screwing freak." _Dean slid down on the mattress, nagging pain getting the better of him again. He'd sleep next, fitfully, for an hour or so, and wake up nastier than he was before. It happened in cycles, and it was leaving both of them ragged with exhaustion.

Sam tossed some painkillers on the bed, ignoring the goosebumps that peppered his arms and the rock in his stomach. "Try these, maybe they'll help with the pain."

"_You taking the whole bottle would help. You can't die but maybe they'd turn you into a vegetable." _

"Yeah, that'd be awesome," Sam said mirthlessly.

Sam got Dean a glass of holy water for the pills. He sat it down next to him, fighting how his muscles defensively coiled, ready to defend himself against his own brother. _"Dad never loved you. He just kept you around waiting for you to turn so he could put you down,"_ Dean snarled.

Sam's pokerface never slipped, but his resolve was. "You're running out of material, dude."

Dean lifted his eyebrows as if Sam had issued a challenge. Then he spit in Sam's face—a disgusting glob of spongy saliva that landed in the corner of his left eye. It was a sign of revulsion and disrespect that Dean had never done to _anyone_, not even demons. Sam had to locked his muscles to keep from hitting him out of reflex. But his hands were shaking when he wiped the spittle away. He nudged the water closer. "Take your pills, Dean."

Sam cleaned the room, keeping his hands busy and filling his mind with the inane tasks at hand and the memories he'd wished he could have relived in Heaven. He'd been making a list of all of the things he remembered and cherished, the moments that helped shape the person he was when he left for Stanford. The hunt had gone so well that he was going to give Dean the unfinished list the night before, after the bar.

He thought of the Dean's face when he'd given him the zippo lighter for his sixteenth birthday. He'd remembered the day they'd found an abandoned tent on the street and went camping in the field behind Pastor Jim's church. Sam almost smiled as the recalled the first time Dean had taken him to the beach. It was a special memory, one so pristine he could still hear the cry of seagulls, feel the spray of the water on this face. The day had been overcast, the ocean was hazy and gray, but the clouds rolled and stacked up on each other. It was a majesty Sam had never seen until then, one that fortified his belief in the divine.

It was why he'd chosen to go to college mere miles from the beach, because of that day when they frolicked in the freezing waves in their clothes and boots, not caring about anything but being brothers.

The memories gave Sam the strength to bear this horrible night, and the wretched ones ahead. He'd already gotten Dean through twenty hours. He could handle fifty more as long as he focused and didn't dwell. He could do this. He could—

"_Jess burned because of you."_ Dean's tone was weird combination of explosive meanness and agonizing weakness. _"Your blood boils when you're burned alive. You cook like a slab of bacon. That's what you did to that beautiful, innocent woman. Probably should have shot her in the face after your first date. Itwould have been a whole lot nicer." _

Sam's knees nearly buckled. His eyes filled. His heart splintered within him. The hunters had been gunning for Sam, and now he was thinking their plan had worked perfectly.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much for all the favorites and the reviews! I'm so glad you like the story. After this part, though, I'm going into hiding. But I'm taking my TV so I can keep up with the show of course. Adios.

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Chapter Two

Dean was capsized in a tsunami of misery, and he was choking on it, drowning in it. It filled his lungs and flooded his mind. It fed the monster inside of him, unlocking doors that were never meant to be found, teasing out buried, unspoken pain until he knew nothing but liberating anger. It burned through him, livid and fetid, raw and as real as the knife under his pillow, the steel of the Impala.

Sam was there. Dean knew that—but all he could see was the thing he was, his demon-tainted soul, and all the people he had died and would die because of him.

Sam's movements strobed and jumped like he was losing chunks of time. His brain was cobwebbed and dumb. Big hands lifted him harshly, ramping up the once quiet pain in his chest. Like a wounded animal, Dean struck out with a closed fist—instinct to make the pain stop. Sam skittered into the nightstand, knocking everything over. The thunderous clatter felt uncorked a reservoir of pain, lava sluicing down his spine.

So, Dean erupted, _"When you were possessed, you tried to rape Jo,"_ he seethed, unburdening himself of the secret he'd been carrying for three years.

He didn't feel any guilt when Sam's distorted face folded with horror. _"Nice start before you got them blown up on a useless mission to kill the evil you set free."_

His arms were shaking and there was static in his head again. He folded into his pillow that smelled of sour sweat and gratefully faded away.

-o-

Sanity was a slippery thing. Sam's was waning like the pastel rays of a sunset. Sixty-three hours gone, and Dean was plummeting further into the toxin's hold. He was twisted with pain, dangerously feverish, and uninhibitedly mean. But he wasn't halluncinating or possessed by evil. Dean was still himself down to the mannerism: tugging at his hair when the pain crescendoed, fidgeting with restlessness from being bed-ridden, preferring red Gatorade to any other flavor.

The poison had just left him utterly disarmed. It was Dean with no barriers, no big brother filter and no shame.

Sam found himself selfishly wishing that Dean was highjacked by some remarkable evil, because everything he said, every verbal bullet he fire wouldn't be from the gun of Dean's mind, but some random evil that existed to spread misery.

The icing on the misery sundae of the week, was that Sam knew Dean physically couldn't take much more. He wasn't sure he could either as he was hiding in the bathroom, brushing his fingers against the coarse stubble that had sprouted in the past two days. His head was buzzing, echoing with Dean's ragged voice spouting horrible truths. He was slow-minded from fatigue, guilt and the snowballing realization that Sam was an abomination his big brother secretly had no faith in.

He hadn't slept or eaten in almost two and a half days. No, he hadn't been poisoned, but after the being blindsided by vengeful hunters—again—and swallowing Dean's cruelty, he was unable to keep anything down. He trembled at his sat on the toilet seat, trying to rally, but feeling as strong as a cotton ball.

The molecules around him shifted kinetically, shabby shower curtain wafting from a current of air. Sam didn't have to look up to see that Castiel loomed beside him.

"I'm afraid the hunt from the cure or counter-agent is still fruitless."

"Figured." Sam muttered. His voice sounded dead. He stared at his hands. He'd forgotten that Dean had broken one of his fingers when he'd given up punching and started smashing. It was hot and swollen now, skin stretched tight. It barely hurt, so he poked at it until it did.

"How is Dean?"

Sam pressed his shaking hands against his knees, forcing himself to stand. He turned on the cold water in the sink and shoved his hand under it. "He's hangin' in. You should probably keep lookin'. The poison might not kill him, but the fever will. Medication doesn't work, Cas. He needs relief."

"He is not the only one." Castiel fluttered in front of him, head cocked to the side. His marbled blue eyes were searching, probing. "Perhaps, I should stay with Dean while you sleep. You must need more than the standard four hours. You don't look well, Sam."

Sam shook his head, ignoring how his vision swirled even when he stopped. He dipped to the sink to splash his face, repeatedly. It worked to clear the fog a bit. "Dean wouldn't want anyone to see him like this. I got this."

Cas was apparently used to Winchester-grade orneriness, and didn't push. "Call if you need to be relieved." With no more than a snap of a trenchcoat, he was gone, and Sam felt irrationally abandoned.

Sam crossed the length of the bathroom in three short steps, his heartbeat quickening with every step he took. He was near panic by the time he reached the threshold, but he crossed it anyway, because Dean was his brother. He'd died for him. He owed him this and infinitely more.

Dean was shivering again, curled into himself, teeth clicking from the undulating chills of the fever. He was pale, eyes shadowed from fatigue, cheeks red from fever. Sam disinfected the thermometer with alcohol, and sat on the bed. He slipped it under Dean's tongue, hurrying while he was still docile.

He grunted when Dean kicked him in the hip. Hard. "Cut it out," Sam snapped. The thermometer beeped. "Hundred and one point four…it's doing down, Dean. That's good."

Seemingly out of verbal insults, Dean kicked him again, and Sam gritted his teeth as his ribs bent from the force.

Idly, he wondered if he should restrain him. He'd thought about it around the forty-third hour when Dean had started going for Sam's fingers. Then, he'd remembered the debilitating helplessness of being seized by delirium, and unable to move or react to pain and delusions when he was handcuffed to the cot in the panic room. He couldn't bring himself to do that to Dean, even if it was safer for him. Sam stood up, wincing at the ebbing pain in his side.

"_Bobby lost his legs because of you."_

Sam didn't have time to react to that crushing dig, because Dean's foot flew out again, catching Sam right in the groin. The world washed into a soundless red and a breath-stealing, white-hot agony in a place where there should never be pain. Sam dry-heaved into the stained carpet as the agony radiated outward. It dulled only to sharpen again.

By the time Sam could scrape himself off the floor, Dean was asleep breaths even, face relaxed for the first time in almost three days. And he felt a meager spark of desperate hope that this was finally over.

Sam hoisted himself up on the other bed, and thought about pouring at the whole ice bucket down his pants. He never remembered closing his eyes.

-o-

A constricting pressure cinched around his neck that had his body jack-kniving for air catapulted Sam from the sweetness of much-needed sleep. He was _suffocating_. His vision was nothing but garbled blacks peppered with oily prismed spots and for several airless seconds, he couldn't tell if he was if this was real. But it hurt too much to be a dream, even a Lucifer-induced one. His legs kicked out. One hand clawed at hands strangling him, nails tearing as they hooked over a cool metal ring. The other went to the nightstand, groping for gun he kept there. The gun that was now in the weapons bag in the bathtub.

Sam bucked and fought for air, unable to do anything but that. It was the most primal fight of his life and the most futile. Sound intensified and all he could hear were his own machine-gunning heart beat, the slapping chuff of flesh hitting flesh and the creaking of old bedsprings.

His feet became numb, leaden blocks that no longer responded. His hands weakly thumped painfully against what he knew were Dean's arms. His lungs were empty and blistingerly begging for air. Sam would be unconscious soon.

Dean hovered over him, nearly nose to nose. His face was slashed with halflight, and he looked like the fierce hunter Sam knew he was. _"Payback's a son of a bitch, Sammy."_

"_How does it feel to be the one who ended the world? How does it feel to have the blood of thousands on your hands?"_

Tears dripped from his eyes as he looked at Dean's face, and Sam morbidly hoped that this was it, that maybe he could be done. He was overwhelmingly sorry for it all. Unable to draw breath to speak, he mouthed the words. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry._ He'd set the world up to burn, and betrayed the only family he hadn't gotten (permanently) killed, and it didn't matter if good intentions were at the heart of it.

Inexplicably, Dean released his hold. Sam's entire body convulsed with the effort to refill his lungs with oxygen. He writhed, coughing so hard he saw stars, and was only able to concentrate on breath after merciful breath.

"_I went to hell for an honest-to-God monster! I disemboweled and julienned and minced souls far cleaner than yours. I learned a lot in the pit. I should filet you like a fish." _

There was a flash of silver before there was a knife in his chest, piercing muscle, scraping bone. Stupefied from being strangled, Sam didn't even feel the pain, just a surge of adrenaline as he caught Dean's wrist, pushing to keep the knife from sinking down to the hilt. Dean relented but attacked again, arcing down and catching him again.

Sam was all training and efficiency now. He twisted Dean's wrist at an impossible angle, thankfully not feeling a bone-crunching pop, but a eliciting a bark of pain. Dean's hunting knife thudded uselessly to the mattress. Sam snatched it with his other arm, hurling it blindly, embedding it into the wall across the room.

His older brother was wavering now, fight waning as quickly as it had come, but Sam didn't care. He was already staggering up and away, scrambling into the safe haven of the bathroom. The pain decided to hit now, and did with the gentility of a bolt of lightning. Sam pitched forward, collapsing to the scummy tiled floor, hands skidding on his own blood. His left side was immobilized by the vicious pain of being knifed. He kicked the door shut with his remarkably long legs. Somehow, Sam didn't know, he locked it too. He scooted backwards, snatching anything that would stop the bleeding.

He found himself wedged between the toilet and the tub in the darkness, shower curtain pressed against his the punctures in his chest, crying and retching and hyperventilating.

His head was lolling and weaving, and his blood-slicked hands fell in his lap. It was all the warning he got before he passed out.

-o-

A warm glimmer radiated through him, warm like comfort, cool like water. It intensified, slowly brightening to an ethereal heat that thrust Sam into consciousness. He gasped awake and assaulted by a very angry, battered body. His throat felt bloated and blistered from the inside out, his chest crushed in and dented, like the fender of a totaled car. His stomach turned at the strong tang of the blood that soaked his left side, the top of his jeans, and the floor.

He had nothing left, just enough energy to blink and maybe whimper as Castiel's face, etched in concern, hovered in front of him. "You scared me, Sam. I had to wake you up. I apologize."

Sam didn't care, he blinked numbly, head drooping. Unconsciousness was pulling him under and he craved it. He crumpled against the side of the tub again, eyes rolling back.

Castiel's voice was softer than Sam had ever heard it, but there was nothing tender the jostling his shoulder. He would have screamed if his windpipe worked properly.

"Samuel, you need to focus. I don't know how to fix you." He held up his hands that were stained with crimson.

Thinking required energy he just didn't have, but Sam had been trained as a warrior since birth, and he instinctively knew what needed to be done. Unfortunately, he had to vocalize it with a swollen, inflamed throat, and he couldn't. He closed his eyes, licking his cold lips, summoning the strength to try.

"You don't have to speak. Think it and I will hear you."

Sam squinted at the blurry angel in front of him. Lately he'd been forgetting that Castiel wasn't human. He was angry and distraught and sarcastic, more like a rebellious son than an angel of the Lord. Disbelieving, Sam focused on one stream of thought—_Open my shirt, wipe away the blood so I can see_—and Castiel obeyed, tearing open his shirt so Sam could look. Castiel washed away tacky blood, revealing a constellation of swollen, angry punctures.

The shock of seeing the wounds was left him even more frayed. If asked, Sam, a trained hunter, would have sworn that Dean had only stabbed him twice, the last of which had been deflected and a shallow wound at best. Dean, who was as efficiently lethal as he was fast, had stabbed him _four_ times. Right above his heart. The knife wounds were deep and nasty—one scraping over the breastbone—were thankfully isolated to the muscle, but they still bled merrily.

_Press down…pressure will stop the bleeding. Don't break my ribs, Cas_. Castiel responded, placing the heel of his hand against the still weeping wounds in his chest. Sam gurgled at the lurid flourish of pain. His abused throat closed up, slamming like a deadbolt. Sam blacked out again. When he came back, Castiel acted as his hands, stitching the wounds almost exactly as he would have done. It was like a supernatural ventriloquist act. A really disturbing one.

Sam only registered how badly he was shaking when Castiel tried to give him some Gatorade from one of the discarded bottles in the bathroom. His jaw kept locking and biting the rim of the mug or it would spill, curling down his chin. He shook his head, giving up. He focused on Castiel again, his last orders were precise.

_Clean up the blood. Take care of Dean. Don't tell him about this._


	4. Chapter 4

Hi! I didn't want it to be this long before I posted a new part, but I kind of freaked out about where I'd taken the story. So, Bobby to rescue. There's one more part left! Please let me know what you think.

Thanks so much for all the support!

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Chapter 3

Dean tumbled from a long-winded labyrinth of muddy dreams and into a hallucination that consisted of a certain rogue angel, was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor Donna Reed-style, yellow kitchen gloves and all. He rubbed the crust from his eyes, more focused on that, than the pervasive ache of his body, the hint of sulfur on his tongue, and an inexplicable feeling of dread in his stomach.

He'd done something wrong. He could feel it.

Sensing the movement, Castiel turned to him, expression blank. Until he smiled. It was waxy and didn't seem to fit his face. His eyes were still heavy with a millennia of duty. Dean glared at him in suspicion.

"You are awake," Castiel said. "You were poisoned by hunters. Do you recall?"

Dean grunted a yes, still gaining his bearings. Something was wrong. He could feel it even if his head hurt too much to figure it out. The room smelled of Pine Sol and it was making even more lightheaded. He felt like he could sleep for a month and then demolish an entire buffet. He felt wasted and weak. He felt…no knife under his pillow. Dumbly, he turned to the other bed, wondering how he hadn't noticed it earlier. It was empty, but more than that, the bed had been stripped. No bedspread. No sheets.

"Sam. Where's Sam?" Dean felt frantic because he didn't know. He didn't remember.

Castiel's face remained unchanged, but he fidgeted, twisting the finger of his rubber gloves with fascination. If angels were anything, they weren't uncertain or shy. They were built to accept and deliver all-or-nothing.

"Sam isn't here, Dean. He left me to watch over you."

There was only one reason why Sam would take off when Dean was out of his head with fever. "Did he go after the hunters who roofied me?" Dean asked, praying Sam wasn't that stupid.

Castiel's face never changed, dopey, incongruous smile included, and he nodded slowly. "Yes, that's where he went. I…tried to stop him."

"Dude, you're an angel. I know Sam is a friggin' giant, but I think you could take him down with two fingers."

A bottle of red Gatorade nearly hit him in the nose. "Sam said you were going to be in need of fluids and that you need to rest."

Dean pushed himself upright slowly, which ignited a bruising pain in his right wrist. He pulled up his sleeves, frowning at the swollen limb, flecked with dried blood and peppered with scratches. He sipped at the Gatorade until the liquid sloshed in his empty stomach. The drink cleared his head and gave him a meager supply of strength. It was all he needed. Determined, he forced himself to his feet. His legs were rubbery and stubborn, refusing to hold his weight, but he locked his knees and willed himself to stay upright. Dean wobbled into the bathroom to shower. The cramped room wreaked of bleach that viciously turned his stomach. And the feeling of utterly wrong skyrocketed when Dean saw shower curtain was missing and the weapons bag was stuffed in the sink.

The very bag Sam would have taken with him if he were tracking down hunters.

"Cas!" The bellow made the room spin and Dean had to sit. He plopped on the commode, leaning forward to rifle through the duffel. He found Sam's favorite .45 mm and preferred sawed-off and all of the weapons they readily carried, except Dean's knife. He twisted the straps around his hands, squeezing. And that brought it all back—echoes of ugly words and violent pictures that involved Dean kicking Sam, spitting in his face…

He staggered from it, physically hurting at the cacophony of insults he'd hurled at Sam boomed in his eyes.

Dean bent at the waist to puke on the floor. Castiel grip was tight around his upper arm. "I just cleaned that," Castiel groused.

Wiping his mouth, Dean shot the angel-turned-housewife his nastiest glare. "Sam. Now!"

Castiel didn't relent, so he charged out of the bathroom and yanked open the door. He was barefoot, weaker than a newborn puppy, and probably looked like an animated corpse, but his little brother was had stormed out half-cocked and angrier than a pitbull, and that kickstarted a protective streak that had carried him through much worse. He stumbled outside, wincing at the searing yellow of sunshine. It was spring, but winter still claimed the chill in the air and the frost on the burgeoning grass. The cold sliced clean through him, and he was instantly shivering. Then he was stuck with an entirely different surge of cold when Dean padded towards the parking lot. The Impala sat in her parking spot, gleaming as usual. "He didn't take the car…why wouldn't he take the car?" he muttered, feeling crazed. He scratched his head that was still jumbled and slow, trying to make sense of anything.

It felt like the nastiest hangover of his life: the aching head and the fuzzy confusion about what'd he'd done.

Castiel emerged from a gust of wind. He'd lost that eerie smile and his normally somber countenance had returned, albeit a bit sadder. "I cannot stop you, can I?" He asked.

Dean stared him down, jaw set in determination.

He turned, trenchcoat billowing in the wind. "This way, then."

Dean followed him, and was confused as to why he was walking down the awning-covered strip of motel rooms and away from the car. They reached room 9B and Castiel produced a key and unlocked it. Dean was already pushing into the door, not sure by what he'd find, but already knew it going to be awful.

The room was nearly identical to theirs, decorated with peach wallpaper with faded green bedspreads. The television was on, streaming rays of muted light through the shadowed room. Dean ventured further, expecting to find Sam trussed up like a turkey in the midst of wicked demon-blood cravings or heck, even disposing the bodies of the hunters he'd killed. Instead he was sprawled on his back in the bed. Dean's heart stopped at the sound of shallow, ragged breaths. He dove forward, turning on the light. Sam was bundled in blankets, only his face and shoulders were exposed. The kid was white down to the lips, his mouth was parted and he was sweating, shoulders lurching from the effort to just breathe because he'd been strangled. His neck was a kaleidoscope of puffy, purpling welts.

Dean knew that wasn't the worst of it. It couldn't have been.

With a shaking hand, he pulled the covers back and an unchecked sob burst through his lips as he saw the ugly jagged wounds on his chest, stitched, yet unbandaged. His patch-up job was pretty impressive considering how serious the wounds were, but sloppy as sticky dried blood still stained his torso and arms and hands. The other injuries, a broken finger and some untreated defensive wounds, gruesome suggested that Sam had walked into ambush and didn't even have time to fight back. The last dregs of energy failed him and he knees buckled. He fell, more than sat, on the edge of Sam's bed.

Dean's head snapped to Castiel, wet eyes narrowed in anger. "Did they do this to him? The hunters." He asked, checking Sam's pulse. It was weak and fast. He bundled the blankets around his naked brother.

Castiel nodded, defiantly sure. "Yes."

"And you didn't think to take him a hospital?! You didn't think to go with him?!"

It was his Dean's turn to endure an endlessly intense stare-down. "Do not direct your angers towards me; I am not your servant and I am not your sibling, yet I was searching for a counter-agent," Castiel menaced in the terrifying way only he could, "_for you_. All the while, Sam was tolerating your nasty tongue and your…_torment_."

Dean wasn't humbled often, and this felt like one of those rare times. He sighed, shoulders dropping along with the tension. He mumbled an apology to Castiel, knowing that stupid poison—Dean's sickness and his horrible words—and maybe even his wavering belief in his brother had pushed Sam back to his warpath ways. Dean scrubbed his cheeks clean, wishing the relentless guilt was as easy to get rid of as a few stray tears. He cupped his brother's stubbled cheek, hating how gaunt and ill he looked. "I'm going to take care of you, Sammy, okay. You're gonna be fine."

He stood up, and rolled Sam on his right side with meticulous care and braced him there with his bad arm. His little brother's face tightened in pain, and he made a pathetic strangled sound. "I know, Sam. Hang on. Just hang on." He snapped his fingers at Castiel, pointing to the pillows on the other bed. Together, they created a nest of pillows and carefully propped him up on it as to ease his struggle for breath. Dean washed away the old blood and grime from his side, bandaged his chest, treated his arms, and splinted his finger. Exhausted and dizzy from just an hour out of bed, he grabbed Sam's wrist, fingers on his pulse point, and fell asleep.

Thirteen hours later, a ripple of life tremored through Sam's body. It felt like magic when Sam's eyes opened to stare first at the lamp and then at him. Dean tried to smiled, feeling as worn out as he could ever remember. But then Sam's face twisted in fear, and he flung himself back and away. Dean was horrified, frozen, as Sam nearly rolled off the bed. His Adam's apple was bobbing, but all that came out were shrill wisps of screams. Dean moved to calm him down, to keep him from tearing his stitches open, but Castiel beat him to it.

He grabbed Sam's shoulders and attention, and they stared at each other, purposeful and long. There were tears in Sam's eyes. He shook his head minutely. Castiel whispered something. Seconds later, Sam was still agitated, but he wasn't panicking.

Dean couldn't figure out when he was cut out of the loop, or when that freaky loop that included the Vulkan Mind-Meld.

He leaned over Sam, cringing at the roughness of his breathing and the lingering fright in his eyes. "It's over, Sammy, I'm not tweakin' on supernatural mojo anymore. It's okay. I'm so sorry…for everything I said and did…to you. I can't…I'm sorry."

He placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure and comfort. His little brother, the kid he literally died for, recoiled, eyes squeezed eyes shut, chest heaving. It was the universal face of fear. In his years as a hunter, Dean had repelled the depths of unabashed remorse. He'd gotten people killed, including Sammy and his dad, Ellen and Jo. He'd watched delicate life fall slip his fingers and to Hell below. But he'd never sank to the despairing valleys where Sam was terrified of him, where a kindhearted touch was unnerving instead of nurturing. It didn't match the pain of the toxin or even that of Hell. It felt like cosmic failure and tasted of acrid betrayal.

Dean scooted out of Sam's line of sight and into the chair just beyond the bed. He leaned back, and watched as Sam stared at the ceiling. He mumbled silently while his right hand twisted the sheet methodically before Castiel placed his ontop. Eventually, the corded muscles and strain sloughed off him like an unnecessary husk and he settled. He recognized the look and the flickers of discomfort. He'd seen it in Sam as a baby, Sam as a kid, Sam as a young man ready for Stanford.

It was Sam surviving without Dean.

-o-

Dean traded the Gatorade for whiskey.

They'd been on a quest to save the world for almost two years, and it was big and scary and horrible. But most days, if he was lucky, Dean felt detached from it all. Math had never been his thing, and the sheer number of lives in his hands, lives that his actions would directly affect was so staggering, it was incomprehensible. But this…Sam so despondent with from pain and Dean's abuse, this felt like the end of days.

Sam wouldn't speak. He wouldn't wash himself. He wouldn't move. He wouldn't even blink until his eyes teared from being open for so long. Sam was gone, imprisoned in that big brain of his where Dean couldn't reach him, which Dean figured was probably the point. The only signs that he was alive, that he hadn't had a stroke or lapsed into a coma were tiny, heartbreaking whimpers of pain and pupils that dilated and contracted normally.

He took another long pull from the bottle, wondering if Sam had felt like this when he'd unknowingly unleashed Lucifer. If his skin crawled with regret so potent, it choked him. If his stomach constantly churned with guilt so fiery he'd felt like he'd consumed acid. If his heart felt like broken glass rattling around in his chest. Dean had done this. He'd know what was happening, but he couldn't stop himself. And Dean's forgiveness and his quest for redemption had been the only thing keeping him going, and Dean had just A-Bombed it to dust.

He'd thought hideous, unforgiveable things in those outrageously awful days after Sam had left him bleeding in a hotel room with seals falling all around them. He'd run the gambit of emotions. Hate had been the knee-jerk emotion, prominent but shallow, like oil muddying the surface of the water, blocking out the love beneath it. Dean had to absorb what had happened, what Sam had done, and all of those ugly feelings were private and fleeting. But the poison had stripped that away, had given life to sentiments that had died days after they began. Because Sam needed to see through this revenge against Lilith was how their father and even Dean had been taught to cope with grief. Dean's death was at the heart of all the reckless choices he was making, and while Sam was culpable, it he didn't start the Apocalypse on his own…and he certainly didn't break the first seal or the sixty-four others that followed. So as temptingly simple as it had been to blame him for Lucifer's parole or the loss of Bobby's legs or the Hurricane Hell making landfall on the globe, it had been a mistake. A horrible, well-intentioned mistake.

Dean stood up, unbending cramped muscles and weak limbs to pace around the room. It smelled rank and stale, like sweat and despair. He swayed to the window and opened them. It was daylight and air was cold and crisp. He drank again, stumbling and gulping. And was suddenly breathless by how much he missed and needed Ellen. She was Sam's surrogate mom, had adopted him as quickly as Sam had her. She would know what to do. She would hold Sam and coax him out of catatonia and feed him soup. He needed that. He needed something familiar and comfortable, a place he'd feel safe enough to come back to. And Dean wasn't it anymore.

"Bobby," Dean muttered, startled by his voice. "We'll go there." Dean wobbled to the bed and knelt by Sam again, turning his head towards him. He took his hand. The one with the splinted finger he broke. "Sammy, you wanna go to Bobby's? He's only three states over. Tomorrow, we'll roadtrip, okay?" Dean rubbed at the lax fingers, hoping to trigger some kind of reaction. He studied his pale face and vacant eyes with stillborn hope. Sam didn't move, just blinked in sluggishly, a base instinct. "Good. I'll drive."

Dean traded the whiskey for coffee.

At dawn, he bundled Sam into the car, with pillows and blankets, and floored it all the way to South Dakota .

-o-

Sam was floating or flying. He couldn't quite decide. Sometimes, it was aimless and blue; others there were rapids of fear and the skies of sweeping pain. He would touch down, drift ashore only to be inundated by soul-sapping weight of a broken body, nastiness echoing in his ears; the roughness of a hand in his. But it was too intense and to horrifying to stay. The tide would pull him back and the wind would carry him away. And Sam didn't mind at all.

-o-

It wasn't the first time Bobby played host to injured Winchesters, so he wasn't at all shocked to see them arrive, but he was flabbergasted that it was Dean was standing; and Sam decidedly wasn't. They got him settled in the downstairs bedroom and hunkered down for the long days ahead. When Dean rose to check Sam's temperature, he swayed, listing into the wall. He was running on caffeine and fear and nothing else. Bobby, still quick with reflexes despite the chair, snagged his sleeve, but was barely able to keep him on his feet. "You look like you need this chair more than me. Sit your ass down, boy. You need to sleep."

Dean stared at Sam's blank face, eyes thankfully closed as he appeared to be sleeping, and couldn't move. Instead, he leaned propped himself against the shelves behind him. "I can't…Sam's freakin' Rain Man and I did this to him."

Bobby's eyes tightened in sympathy. "You remember bein' whammied?"

He tasted bile. "Every awful thing I thought about him…I said it. I blamed him for your," he gestured to the chrome elephant in the room, his face sour with shame. "I told him that...I hated him. I said that…he got Jess killed…I told him…I was glad Mom was dead…because she'd hate what he'd become."

The air in the room got thin and his legs betrayed him again. He ended up on his knees, gulping for air like a dying fish, hand cinched around the denim of Bobby's jeans. "I kicked him…and I hurt him, Bobby. I mean…I felt some…pretty nasty things after Lucifer's coming out party. But we were past it…we friggin' joke about it. That stupid poison, it dredged up all of that crap…and I threw it in his face. It was worse than the siren."

"Chokin' on guilt isn't going to unring the bell, son. Neither will ignorin' the fact that you were sick as a dog for days. Sam'll be okay."

Anger bored through the defeaning remorse and Dean was grateful for it. He rode the livid wave to his feet and glowered at the older man before him. "Be okay? The freakin' world's in a freefall. Sam's set up to be Lucifer's mascot and on _vacation in his brain_. We're not even in the ballpark of okay."

His head snapped to Sam so fast that his neck cracked. Dean charged over to Sam's bed, gripping his lax brother by the shoulders, sick of the distant blankess of his face. His skin was too warm from fever and too dry from dehydration. His neck muscles were limp and loose and his head sagged and wobbled as Dean shook him. "Sammy, wake up. You need to kick my ass for unloadin' on you. Sam. _PLEASE_." Dean said. And it struck him how fast things could change. It was just like in the bar. They'd been laughing and goofing off and then everything whipped into panic and pain like the flip of a switch or the push of a button.

Now Dean's shortlived frustration had morphed to grief-driven desperation. Sam's eyes were open, but empty and they rattled around like marbles in a dryer. Dean let out a dry sob of air, realizing what he was doing, and reeled him in with one arm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Dean blubbered though he wasn't even able to cry. "Guess your big brother is a jerk, huh, Sam? You were right, bitch. You win, okay?"

The silence stretched out as Dean gently laid him down, smoothing out his hair and checking to make sure his tantrum hadn't popped any of Sam's stitches.

"You done, Shirley McClaine?" Bobby asked. Dean forgot he was still there.

Dean twisted back towards Bobby, taking back control. "Call all the freaks in your Rolodex. Healers, witches, psychics, resurrect Pamela if you have to. If that doesn't work, I'll take some dreamroot and drag his ass out. I want my brother back. _Now_."

He shook his head and glided over to Sam's bed. "If Sam doesn't want to be found, tearing him out of this ain't get the job done. He's entitled to a breakdown. We've all had plenty."

Dean shook his head. "This isn't good for him, Bobby. He'll get sicker."

He crossed his arms against his chest, proverbially putting his foot down. "Sam's done this before…he'll come back when he's ready."

Dean knew every splinter, fever and break Sam ever had and he'd never checked out of life before. "You goin' senile, old man, I think I'd remember if Sam had…_oh_." There was a cavern of time when Dean was in the pit and Sam was topside.

"It was after we planted you in the ground. He kinda checked out just like this." Bobby picked up Sam's hand, and held it fiercely. "He came back, but it took a while."

"What'd you do, Bobby?"

Bobby actually smiled, eyes shadowed beneath his baseball hat. "Played some of the noise you call music from the Impala."

Dean's eyes definitely teared at that, and he turned towards Sam, who was at least breathing a bit deeper—not gasping for air like he had been earlier. If Dean ignored the bruises on his forehead, the black eye and the purple handprints on his throat, it looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open. "You are so busted. You like my music, you liar." He knew Sam needed him, but sometimes, he didn't realized how much.

This, however, wasn't one of those times.

He swallowed the tears in his throat, his eyes drifting towards the rows of books on the shelves flanking the wall. He bypassed the supernatural texts and the novels, and settled on one Sam would like. _Supreme Court Precedents and their Impact on American Justice_. He handed the tome to Bobby. "Start reading."


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, everyone! Sorry again for the delay. Life kicked my ass a bit, so it took me away from the story. I also struggled with the ending. But no more excuses! Onward to the last part of the story. Please, please let me know what you honestly think. Thanks so much for your support.

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Chapter 4

He awoke to the smell of coconut and the feeling of overwhelming déjà vu. There were overlapping echoes in his head, stark whispers that made him afraid for Dean and for himself. It tore a moan out of him, even before the pain—both hot and cold—thrumming from his body did. Sam sounded thin and scratchy to his own ears, and the subsequent vibrations hurt. But then again everything did.

He heard a voice that was home and North almost as much as Dean's was, and wanted to turn his head, but his body was overloaded that it couldn't respond and even retreated. It flitted backwards, awareness dimming. Sam focused on the voice, plucked that silver thread out of a tapestry of gloom, and tried to stay.

_"..the sky was nothing but a rolling slab of gray. The light burst through in some places, and I didn't say it, but it looked like joining of Heaven and earth. Like if we could see a little further, we'd see Mom. We walked through the waves with our pants on, because we didn't have swimsuits. You knew how much I wanted to go in, so you waded in fully dressed. The waves were strong…the ocean had a mind, a heart and a current all its own, but you were stronger, and grabbed onto me. We swam and floated and bodysurfed. And you never let me go, even though there were girls around and we were in public, and I was 14. You just held on." _

The memory kept him there, tethered and he could feel the lightness hardening, and could feel himself sinking, spirit bowing beneath the unbelievable weight of reality and the pain that came with it. He could feel the scrape of a hand jammed into his, sweaty but calloused. He could feel a hot, sandpapery tightness in his throat, and the swollen tissues inside. He could feel the tearing pull of stitches and in his chest and the almost cautious beat of his heart and the resonating ache a second later. He could feel his lids working, lashes separating. The light was brilliant and it stung unused eyes. He blinked with it, turning his head. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak.

"Not yet, Sam. Don't talk." Bobby commanded softly. "Glad you're back."

Sam's mouth snapped shut with a click and he squinted at the watery image of the man beside him. He didn't know how he got there and didn't care. He melted into the secure comfort of Bobby's house. Now he was just worried about one thing…

"Dean's fine, Sam." Bobby knew him enough to know what that was. "You can't see him, but he's on the floor, asleep."

Something wound tight within Sam loosened, wilted. His blood pressure dropped by notches, although another part of his still felt panicked and too alert. He caught the used cartons of coconut water and discarded IVs. It was a quick and dirty trick used in on patients of war to keep them hydrated and somewhat nourished when they were too sick or injured to eat. And that gave him an idea how bad it was.

"Bad?" he said voicelessly, forgetting not to speak. His swollen vocal chords scraping together felt like tectonic plates grinding…and his eyes watered from the aftershocks.

"Maybe you'll listen to me next time," Bobby chastised, letting Sam squeeze the hell out of his hand. "And yes, that bad. What did you think you were pulling, kid? Demon-spun toxins aren't anything to mess around with…"

Sam's heart lurched with him, locking his lungs up. It made sense to him why he felt sullied to the soul and unspeakably anxious. His eyes widened and he twisted Bobby's sleeve, enduring a turbulent wave of panic and guilt and ugliness.

"Sammy!"

Dean appeared out of nowhere, all shadowed eyes and visible exhaustion. He climbed on the bed, turning Sam's face towards him. Dean's lips were forming words, but he couldn't process the sounds until seconds later. "_I should filet you like a fish." _

He blinked, knowing he misheard, misunderstood as Dean's face was wide-open with relief, eyes a glistening, relieved green. Sam's faze flickered to Bobby, gauging his reaction. But his expression was shutdown and unreadable, like a hunter.

Dean was mumbling and it sounded warbling like he was speaking backwards, until: "_Dad should have put a bullet in your head years ago."_

Sam gasped, horrified. Wherever he was, this wasn't right. His heart was thumping painfully hard. Sam was becoming unhinged. Bobby gave him a reassuring pat on the hand.

"Dean, son, why don't you go get Sam some cold water. For this throat. A-and the pills too."

Sam pushed himself up on his right elbow, channeling all of his energy on Dean's response. Dean inhaled to speak, backing off the bed with hopeful movements. Now his face was dark, twisted with hatred, his words of sulfur. "_Jess burned because of you."_

He melted back into the pillows, fight gone, spirit broken. He wanted it all to stop. And wanted to go back to wherever he was before—a plane of undulating nothingness peppered with sporadic snatches of anguish. His eyes rolled and he welcomed the numbing that licked upwards from his toes.

"Son, you're running a pretty high fever, and I'm sure it's scramblin' your brain like eggs on a Texas sidewalk. Dean's fine. The mojo's out of his system. He's been really worried about you." Bobby's tone was as soft as it got. "I know you're confused, but…You need to open your eyes, Sam. Sam!"

But Sam was already gone.

-o-

_"…right after we'd killing the poltergeist. It was one of my first hunts, and I was still completely terrified that I'd trip over my big feet and shoot dad, or something. But we did it. As a family. Dad was so proud, he was BEAMING. We packed up the motel room and he drove all night. We woke up and saw the spiraling red tracks of rollercoasters. He gave us wads of cash and turned us lose. It was early spring, so not that many people were there yet. We rode everything ten times. We ate junk. You even got me to pick pockets when we ran out of money. I just remember eating chili dogs and cheese fries and seeing you and Dad laughing, and rollercoasters screaming behind us. I have a picture of it in my head. We felt like a family then. Not a team of demon hunters, not a widower and his two sons, but a bonded, complete family."_

Sam's eyes opened involuntarily, but it took them awhile to focus on the torn, frayed denim of Dean's knees. He shuffled the loose-leaf papers of…that embarrassing list of memories Sam had written. "I can't…believe you wen' thru my stuff," Sam croaked. His voice would startle small children, but it actually sounded better.

"All's fair in war and sick little brothers."

His lips twitched upwards in a phantom of a smile. And Sam could see HIM, not the evil person Sam's deception had turned him into. He finally had his brother back.

"How'm I doin'?"

Dean's face was sharp with fatigue, body tight with worry. But he seemed to be feeling the same impossible hope. "Not great, but better. Your fever finally broke. How ya feeling?"

"Holy." Sam muttered.

Dean barked a quick laugh.

He tried to lift his hands to gesture, but they were trapped beneath the blankets. "No…HOLE-Y. Lotta holes."

Dean looked grim. "Oh…yeah. Nothin' the Pecs of Steel can't handle, right?"

He grunted in agreement, ignoring the pain and pressure in his chest when the muscle twitched.

There was a long pause punctuated by Dean cracking his knuckles. "Sam. Look, man, we can talk about you goin' all 'Revenge of the Nerds' later," he paused and when his spoke again, his voice was cracked and thick. "There's nothing I can say to fix…or make up for what I said…or what I did to you."

He was grateful to have Dean back again to hear his voice when it wasn't shrouded in hatred or husky from pain. He wondered if Dean knew that he'd actually stabbed him, if Cas actually pulled off the lie. But he didn't say anything. Pushing would have just made Dean investigate. He would have been weeping in remorse if he knew.

"I know…you probably can't forgive me."

Sam's surrendered to the weight of his heavy lids, but he shook his head slightly. "It's done."

"Sam…"

Sam didn't want to think about it anymore. He wanted to sleep and forget. He wanted to heal and dive head first into a case. He didn't want to waste time being scared of his brother or trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he'd had to live through yet another one of his worst nightmares. "…if you felt that way…'bout me, and you forgave me…then I can forgive you…fo' oversharin'."

Dean exhaled sharply, a fast sigh that sounded more like a scoff. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder—softly squeezing—but Sam couldn't fight the reflex to jerk away. His eyes shot open and he stared at Dean's face, shutdown from emotion. "Yeah…that's what I thought."

Dean had been gone for six days when Sam was determinedly done with his wallowing. Panting through the pain, he eased himself up and out of bed—a process that took at least ten minutes—and into the bathroom. After nearly fifteen years as a hunter, Sam had turned the task of bathing injured into an art. It was a dance of agonizing precision. But soon enough, he was dressed and sitting on Bobby's porch, staring the sunlight, pinging off the rusted husks of cars and spreading light on the fields beyond. The morning was an inspiring burst of colors and Sam felt drastically better when the sun light lifted to warm his face.

"Good to see you up and about, kid." Bobby greeted as he parked his wheelchair next to him.

"Hi, Bobby. Finally got sick of the room."

"Took ya long enough. I gotta doc comin' up later to check on ya."

Bobby's wheelchair gleamed in the new light of the day. He still wasn't used to it yet. Part of him expected Bobby to stand up from the chair like his paralysis was an elaborate practical joke. "Do…you ever blame…Dean or even me for…losing your legs?"

Bobby's face turned sour. "It's way too early for questions like that Sam."

"Humor me."

Bobby sighed in concession, much like Dean did when Sam really wanted or needed something. He placed his weathered hands on his knees, rubbing as if to restore the sensation. "There's always gonna be apart of me that wants to. But this is about as much as your fault as it is mine. It's just the luck of the hunt."

"Fair enough."

"What brought this on, kid? You blamin' Dean for this whole ordeal?"

Sam pursed his lips and didn't answer. The weight of this secret was already unbearable, and he ached for someone to carry it with him. As much as he wanted to tell Bobby, he couldn't.

"Now I have a question for you, kid?"

"Shoot."

Bobby sipped his steaming cup of coffee and rolled the bitter brew around in his mouth before swallowing. "I called you on barely four days after Dean was roofied with leads on the punks that dosed him, and Dean said you'd already found them and got yourself ambushed. I didn't even have solid IDs yet, so how'd you figure it out with a sick brother to look after?" A beat. "They didn't shank you, did they...Dean did?"

Sam laughed, but it was rusty and dark. He hadn't thought that Bobby would figure it out. He chanced a glance at him and turned his head, hotness flushing his face. He brushed away a stray tear angrily. "I put all the weapons away…I just forgot about the knife…under his pillow."

"Aww, kid…"

"He doesn't know, Bobby. You can't ever tell him."

"Sam..."

"No, Bobby, you can't. H-he forgave me for the…everything I did to him. If you tell him that he stabbed me, he wwwwon't forgive himself. He won't…fight anymore. I've done terrible things to him…I got him killed…you can't, tell him." He was pleading, and it was desperate and pathetic. But it had to be done. He had to give Dean this much.

He was still weak and sick, and that extended to him composure. It was unraveling, shattering and disintegrating. When it was gone, Sam was crying. Harder than he had after the shock of his father's death had ebbed, almost as hard as he had when Dean was dead. He'd swallowed a hurricane, and the rush of wind and crackle of rain was escaping through his sobs and his tears. He leaned again, legs shaking involuntarily. Somehow, he ended up draped over Bobby's wheelchair in a rough-handed embrace.

"Okay, kid, okay. The secret dies with me...I got a lot more to keep it company. He won't know. It's okay. You're a good brother."

Bobby soothed and patted, as strong and sure as any father, and eventually Sam settled to sproadic hiccups. But the reassurances never stopped. He closed his eyes, letting them fill his mind, and clear out the echos of his fraternal sins.


End file.
